Lest we Forget
by 0sakura
Summary: The screams of the dieing, the pain of the lost, the relief of the ending. No matter what, Canada will never forget. Written for remembrance day. Mild RusCan.


Trumpets rang in his head.

A deep, brassy sound that filled his mind and made it spin, tumble and seem to crumble into the very ground he stood on. He fell like a ragdoll, feeling damp grass wet the knees of his jeans. A hand patted his shoulder gently, a failed attempt to bring the world back into focus. For a long while he sat there, just hovering between letting out a screech and breaking into sobs. So many raw emotions bubbled up, clogging this throat and causing him to take a few uneven breathes. It was all coming undone.

xXx

"_Somebody help me…! Somebody! No, I don't want to…! I don't _want _to go! Please no…! Please…"_

"_You're all right. You'll be okay. Just…Just hang in there, please try, I promise I'll fix you…I promise…"_

"…"

"_See? I've stopped the bleeding now! It's going to be okay! See? Don't you see!"_

"…"

_xXx_

"_How many?"_

"_Hm? Casualties or survivors?"_

"_Casualties."_

_The thump of a bag hitting the table echoed through the deserted room. Metal scrapping against metal, and with a sickening sense of horror he realised what the simple cloth was filled with._

"_That many..?"_

_He felt like he was going to be sick._

_xXx_

_The rain pelted down onto the forest, the drops sounding too much like bullets in the dark of the night. It was getting harder and harder to distinguish the paranoia from reality these days. Matthew supposed that was normal given the circumstances. He hadn't slept in days. Who could with the bombs ringing in from the sky, the mines hidden beneath the feet and the bullets coming in from all sides? Whenever he closed his eyes, all he saw was the nearly dead. The limping and ragged bodies that had just enough life left in them to scream out for safety. But then again, maybe his nightmares would be better than the reality. _

_xXx_

"_Sometimes I wonder why we all have to fight."_

"…_That's a fucking stupid question. It's for everyone back home. It's for Canada."_

_Oh, those brave men…_

…

…

It felt like seconds, like minutes and hours and days, years since Canada had come here last. It hurt as much as the first visit had.

"Matvey?" A deep voice asked, the tone worried and cautious. Matthew didn't want to turn around; he didn't want to see the caring eyes. He needed to devote this moment to the stretch of graves in front of him, the white crosses dotted with red poppies that signified little more than the death of thousands. When he finally spoke, his voice came out uneven and high-pitched.

"I'm so proud of them. So, so proud."

A head came to rest on his shoulder, and a comforting kiss was placed on his cheek.

"Don't feel guilty. It wasn't your fault. You had no control over this, just as I did not."

"I fought with them, you know. I-I tried to protect them. All of them."

"I know."

A hiccup sounded next to the Russians ear, and sobs slowly started to shake his love's body. Ivan sighed, burying his face into Matthew's neck. His eyes felt heavy, and he let the inevitable tears fall. He would only ever show this weakness around Canada.

They stayed that way until they felt it was time to go. Matthew stood, shakily and still sniffling. He reached into his pocket, shuffling around until he pulled out a worn piece of paper. Canada stared at it for a second, then looked out toward the graves and began to read with the fluidity of years of practise.

"_In Flanders fields the poppies blow_

_Between the crosses, row on row,_

_That mark our place; and in the sky_

_The larks, still bravely singing, fly_

_Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the Dead. Short days ago_

_We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_

_Loved and were loved, and now we lie,_

_In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:_

_To you from failing hands we throw_

_The torch; be yours to hold it high._

_If ye break faith with us who die_

_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_

_In Flanders fields"_

Then, with one last glance back at the graves, they left.

xXx

Authors Note: This was a little one-shot for Remembrance Day, which is a day to honor the dead soldiers that fought in the wars, for the safety of others. I have unlimited respect for the people that could withstand such horrible conditions. I hope that wherever they are, they are peaceful and happy right now.

The poem at the end of this story is called "Flanders Fields", and it was written in 1915 by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae. He was a Canadian physician. Every year on November 11th, we present this poem in schools and on the news, basically everywhere. Felt poppies are sold, and everybody wears one to show respect for the people who have served in the army. We also have a minute of silence. I think this is very important day, and a needed one.

Lest we forget.

Now a few notes about the story: Actually not that happy with the quality of this, but…Well, it's the thought that counts. Oh, in case you're wondering what was in the bag that made Matthew feel sick, it was dogtags. I've heard that when a person died, they'd take the dogtag as ID, so that's where that came from. Thank you for reading! Have a nice day!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I don't own Flanders Field, or poppies, or Hetalia.


End file.
